Unforeseen Circumstances
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: John thought it was a little bit amusing that Sherlock could fall victim to a normal illness like the flu- that was, thought it was funny until he looked at the thermometer. Rated M for language, drug abuse, allusions, and innuendos.
1. Chapter 1

John woke late, his alarm somehow shut off. He didn't recall hitting it, but must have; nonethless, he didn't mind the extra sleep. He had the day off. Well, Sherlock didn't have a case, so that meant a day of relaxation for John.

The flat was quiet. It wasn't unnatural, but it wasn't totally comforting, either. John, admittingly, had gotten used to living with Sherlock. To have him padding about the house, barefoot, the slap of his feet against the hardwood, muttering to himself was normal. To hear the soft clink of petri dishes against one another as Sherlock worked on another experiment that John probably didn't approve of gave him a sense of normalcy.

The flat was quiet. It was unsettling, yes, but John wasn't about to complain. He still lived up to his words: mundane was good, once in awhile.

He relished in a hot shower before nipping downstairs, expecting to find Sherlock active by this time. To his great surprise, Sherlock was curled up on the couch, covered with a dirty old blanket, his dressing gown, and his coat. John thought for a moment that he was just pouting over the boredom of no work until he edged closer, noticing the detective to be asleep.

Sherlock was smothered under the fabrics, only his hair and a bit of his face peeping out from under the mass. In that small display of skin, John, who had become embarrassingly fine-tuned to Sherlock, noticed that the already pale man looked even more pale than usual.

Odd. Sherlock being cold, which was what John assumed was the reason for the many blankets, anyway, and Sherlock looking white as a sheet. If John didn't know any better, he would have said Sherlock looked almost... sick.

Frowning slightly, John, who was now feeling every ounce of his doctor training rush to the surface, pushed away the blankets from Sherlock's face and pressed his hand to his forehead.

Sherlock, the one who noticed every sight, taste, smell, sound, and touch, didn't stir. If the warmth John was feeling beneath his fingertips didn't persuade him, Sherlock's lack of action did.

"This is not going to go over well..." John muttered. A normal Sherlock was hard to deal with. A sick Sherlock was going to be a nightmare.

Unwilling to think of that fact, John carefully peeled the mismatched assortment of warming fabric away from Sherlock, ignoring the small stab of guilt when Sherlock curled up tighter.

"Just hang on. I'm getting proper blankets."

He ignored the fact that he was talking to a sleeping Sherlock as he gathered some extra blankets from his room. (Sherlock had no extra blankets in his _own_ room.) He drew them over Sherlock when he had returned to the living room, sighing softly.

John figured that Sherlock had gotten this bug from him. John had been sick for almost a week, which had ended almost four days ago now, but obviously germs were fickle things. As a doctor, he had known that his own illness had been mildly severe; with some shame, he admitted that he had let it get that bad by refusing to acknowledge the symptoms. He had been determined to avoid a cold because he had much more pressing things to deal with, and it had caught up with him in the end.

John knew how likely it was for him to get sick, working with sick patients everyday and running on less and less sleep. John was slightly surprised, however, that Sherlock was sick. It had the same mechanics, really: Sherlock stayed up far too late for his own good, he ate little and drank only coffee or tea, and he had been exposed to illness. It was odd that such a man should succumb to such a silly situation, still...

It was fact: Sherlock Holmes was sick.

John pondered it for a few more seconds, standing, watching sleeping, sick Sherlock like a sap. He realized he was smiling and he realized that wasn't appropriate (it was comical that Sherlock had _finally_ succumbed to something humanish! his mind was protesting) and so, he wandered to the kitchen to make himself a nice hot cup of tea and maybe find something to eat.

Sherlock awoke not an hour later, a quiet what seemed to be a sigh muffled into the blankets. It was that slight noise that brought John's attention away from the Daily Mail and back to Sherlock.

"Morning."

Sherlock sniffed, muttered something in response, and went still again. John raised an eyebrow. Sherlock didn't move again. John thought it was as good a time as any to force medical practice onto Sherlock.

"Sherlock." No response. "Sherlock." John crossed the room, shaking the detective's shoulder.

"Mmm, 'm awake," came the groggy reply.

"Sherlock, I need you to cooperate with me for a second, okay?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock's eyes finally opened, blinking hard a few times, against the light. After a second, he sat up abruptly, fingers making to dislodge the blankets. "Noon."

"No, no, it's only nearly eleven. Easy there, partner," John chided, pressing his hand to Sherlock's forehead again.

The detective instantly stiffened, reeling back from the touch. "What are you doing?"

"I'm checking your temperature...? You're sick, Sherlock, face it."

"'m fine," was the quick reply. John thought that maybe it was an instinct.

"Sherlock-"

"No."

"Look at you, you're shivering."

"I'm fine."

"At least let me take your temperature with a thermometer."

"No."

John sighed. It was beginning. Hell, it had already begun so many precious seconds ago.

"If you say you aren't sick, what's the harm?"

"No point." Sherlock was growing antsy, casting glances at the window, fingers trailing over his blankets. John was making sure Sherlock did not get up by keeping a hand on the detective's shoulder.

"Why are you so stubborn when the clear interpretation of all of the facts is right in front of you?"

"You wouldn't know about that."

"I'm a doctor. I know about this area." John released Sherlock and doubled back to the bathroom, grabbing the digital thermometer from the cabinet. Sherlock hadn't moved by the time he returned. His complexion, though, had gone from pale to a pasty colour and he was sitting utterly still. "Need the bin?" John questioned, catching the slight flash of irritation in Sherlock's eyes when he said it.

"Of course not."

"If you puke on the floor, I am not cleaning it up," was John's careful reply as he slipped the protective sleeve onto the thermometer. "Open your mouth."

"I said-" Sherlock started, but his statement went unfinished; John had taken advantage of Sherlock's open mouth and slipped the thermometer in. Sherlock's look was one of pure loathing.

When the _beep_ signaled the final reading, Sherlock jerked the thermometer from his mouth, holding it out to John like it was the most hideous thing in the world. John chuckled- until he saw the reading. Thirty-nine point two celsius. Not exactly a low-grade.

"John."

He looked back at Sherlock, who had made a move that seemed to speak that he was going to cover his mouth, but stopped halfway, hand clenching in mid-air before it returned to his lap. Whatever Sherlock was trying to prove, John had no idea, fighting his body, but it wouldn't work out in the end.

"Right." He hastened to grab the trash bin, sliding it to Sherlock. "I could find a bucket."

Sherlock just waved a hand dismissively, looking into the contents of the bin, looking rather like he was going to dissect something within it rather than vomit on top of it. John vaguely wondered how long even Sherlock could fight it.

"That's not healthy, you know." He leaned against the doorframe, watching Sherlock. "You want some tea or toast?"

The mention of food pushed his flatmate over and John felt just the slightest bit guilty as Sherlock proceeded to get violently sick for a few tense moments.

That particular bout of illness didn't last for long, but it was apparent to John that Sherlock thought it had lasted _too_ long. He had placed his head in his hands, but the stiff way he held himself, the way his jaw was clenched, the way that his breathing was carefully controlled was just the slightest slip-up in Sherlock's perfect composure.

"Go to bed," John advised, trying to inconspicuously open the windows. "You obviously feel bad and the sleep will do you well. You can warm up, too." The likelihood of that was slim, considering the fever would keep him feeling cold, but Sherlock didn't argue the point. He wasn't on top of things like he normally was. But, John reckoned if he were vomiting in the living room with a thirty-nine point two degree fever, he wouldn't be, either.

Sherlock didn't move for a bit, until his fingers swished the blankets away. He stood, less than gracefully.

"You okay to get to bed?"

"I'm fine," Sherlock repeated for the third time. He didn't move.

"Ah... right. Come on." John moved away from the wall, offering assistance to the detective. Sherlock looked affronted for a half second before his entire sense of pride shifted; he accepted John's help without saying a word as John helped him to his bedroom.

* * *

**Nope, I'm not shipping Johnlock. Sorry, slash fans. Bromance here. Are there people out there that still enjoy that? I feel like I'm just one of a few...**

**It's a multi-chapter! Incentive to continue? Sherlock gets worse before he gets better, and there's a flashback to the week where John was sick... Sherlock wasn't his usual, uncaring self. (For a moment or two.)**

**Please review if you liked it, favourited it, or alerted it. It's nice to know what happens in your little brains. :)**


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock never told John how seriously close he had come to vomiting onto the table that morning. He was perfectly content to keep that information to himself. It was bad enough to have to be _reduced_ to a _bin _in the middle of the _living room... _God forsaken human illness.

However. That wasn't as bad as the fact that, when he woke up the next time, he had found John fussing over him and, when he had opened his mouth to say something, he had very nearly, very, _very_ nearly, vomited all over John. He had taken off at a dead and unsteady sprint to the bathroom and avoided a better part of the mess.

Now he was in bed again, staring at the ceiling. He was shivering terribly but John had taken away his blankets and he didn't think he could stand again. He called him several different types of names in his head but didn't voice complaints out loud- until John had put a cold, wet cloth on his forehead. It had sent chills down his spine and he had protested loudly.

John had shushed him, made him take medicine, and gave him a pitcher of water and a mug and told him to stay hydrated. That would have been a lot easier to do if, immediately after taking the medicine, the round of coughing hadn't kicked in.

"Sherlock..." The way John said his name made him think that whatever John was about to say was going to be a very stupid idea. Be that as it were, he couldn't quite figure out what John would be saying. It had to have something to do with his health, obviously, maybe a chastisement or-

"Budge up there."

Sherlock was a little bemused to find John making him sit up, propping his pillows up so he wasn't laying flat. After a few tenacious moments of wracking coughs and a gnawing chest pain, Sherlock was able to breathe freely.

John muttered something that Sherlock didn't catch before he exited the room. Sherlock, abandoning pretense, slumped back against the pillows and massaged his chest. He felt so... intolerable. To himself. He was laying around. He was sleeping. He was being forced to stay on bedrest and house arrest and, on top of all of that, his mind was clogged, literally _clogged_, with the fog of illness.

He let out a deep breath, which was the big mistake within itself. The coughing started all over again. He couldn't _breathe_!

John, again, Sherlock hadn't been aware of him walking back in, thumped him hard on the back. He wasn't sure what that was to accomplish, but John's touch seemed to work wonders. It was weird; one moment, he was choking, and then John was there, and everything just seemed to work itself out.

He puzzled it, sipping whatever it was that John had pushed into his hands. John didn't have any special capibilities or attributes that would lessen a cough; that was absurd, no person did. He was a doctor, but you couldn't stop a cough from a touch, unless you were to go to some form of acupuncture and Sherlock knew that John didn't have a needle in his hand. Sherlock knew that John wouldn't be the type of doctor to dabble in such pseudoscience, anyway. So, it was baffling to him, then. Why was it that John, of all people, _John, _could calm him down with a simple touch?

He groaned through his teeth, carding his fingers quickly through his hair.

"What hurts?"

The overwhelming desire to figure out the mystery was tearing away at Sherlock and just casting a glance towards the worried-looking doctor made him grow not only more irritated, but angry as well.

"Nothing. Go away," he snapped, shivering hard. The liquid in the mug he was holding trembled precariously close to the edge. John made to fix the blankets. Sherlock slapped his hands away. "Stop bothering me."

There was a flicker of anger, or defiance, perhaps, through John's eyes before the doctor turned and marched out. Sherlock watched him go with a small bit of interest; John's back was ramrod straight, chin up, head high, pace steady but quick. When John was agitated, when something was bothering him, or etcetera, John fell back into his old army ways. It was... interesting, Sherlock guessed.

He looked down in his mug, narrowing his eyes a bit. What was he... Ugh! He couldn't smell! And he couldn't taste, either, so John could have fed him arsenic and he wouldn't have known! But his throat felt a bit better, so he honestly couldn't complain.

He managed to sit the mug down before easing into a more restful position, flinching at the sudden onslaught of pain in his head. He just felt... so weird. His legs felt weak, his body was achy, his head was throbbing, now his chest hurt, the cough was annoying, on top of the repeated episodes of vomiting and the fever, and adding it all up, he figured that he probably had the flu that John had-

Sherlock sneezed just then, the power behind it tearing a whole new path of ache down his throat. He muffled a groan into his pillow, clamping his mouth shut afterwards. There was no point moaning about it. It wouldn't help.

Oh. If he could just sleep through this, Sherlock thought, he would be the happiest man on the world, and he wouldn't even need a murder to make him pleased this time.

His eyes caught the light of the digital by his bed; it read 4:27 a.m.

Wait. Wait a second. Hadn't it just been eleven in the morning? How could it be four-thirty? Where had the time gone? It couldn't be... that he'd slept that long? He couldn't have been asleep that long. But he didn't remember waking up much. He didn't remember being asleep much, either. He remembered vomiting. He remembered the chills. He remembered the blankets and being in the living room and John, John, John...

* * *

John had said to himself that it was the sickness. Actually, it was just Sherlock on a normal day, but the fact that John had been by Sherlock's mostly unconscious side for the past day combined with Sherlock's anti-gratitude policy, John had found himself angry.

It had subsided quickly enough because, it _was_ just normal Sherlock, and he had gone back into the detective's room not ten minutes later to find him already asleep again. Half of the honey tea with lemon that John had prepared was gone, so Sherlock had drank some of it, at the very least. Good. That was good.

He picked up Sherlock's mug and the pitcher of water, going to refill it with cold water again. He went back to his regime of edging blankets away and placing the cold cloth on Sherlock's forehead, carefully wiping away traces of sweat from his brow.

When John had been sick, Sherlock had tried to help. John had ruined it. He didn't realize what he'd done until after he'd done it, but he had ruined Sherlock's one moment of actual caring.

John had been laid up in bed, on his third day of bedrest, actually, growing increasingly more anxious as his illness spiked and decreased. He, who had been hanging around with Sherlock too much, had gotten a habit about him to always be doing something. Bedrest was fine. But not for so many days on end.

He had been sleeping, or trying to. Sherlock had been banging around downstairs, making his head throb worse and his vision wobble at every hit. Eventually, silence had descended and John thought that maybe now he could get some sleep. Until there was a light knock on the door and Sherlock's voice rang into the room.

"John?"

John had glanced up, looking towards the door. "What do you want now, Sherlock?"

"Tea?"

"... What?" He had huffed, eyes focusing on Sherlock. "I'm not making you tea," he had paused to cough, fingers clenching at the blankets tightly, "if that's what you're asking."

"No," Sherlock had replied, sounding like he was explaining something to a very stupid person. (He probably thought that he was, anyhow.) "I made you tea."

John had paused. Sherlock never did anything for another other than himself, overlooking the fact that he helped Lestrade out all the time. That was just murder. He liked to play with murder. That was Sherlock. What was not Sherlock was making tea and helping others out. What was not Sherlock was Sherlock trying to help _John _out. It had unsettled him enough to fall into silence for a moment.

"Oh," he had replied, somewhat lamely.

More silence.

"Do you want it?" Sherlock had asked irritably.

"Oh. Yeah. Thanks."

Sherlock had placed the teacup onto the nightstand before walking out abruptly. John had stared after him. Sherlock hadn't come back for the rest of the period of his illness.

So, yes, John had ruined it and John had been sorry that he had ruined it. But, it had passed.

And irregardless of Sherlock's behaviour, John was still the doctor. It was in his blood to take care of someone sick. And Sherlock was sick. Sherlock was John's patient. John was going to take care of Sherlock no matter his attitude.

* * *

**As mentioned on my other story, I'm working on a new laptop, so excuse any mistakes that you may see. I'm still getting used to this layout! Haha.**

**Regardless, more sick Sherlock. A slight look at sick!John and caring!Sherlock. Trying to keep them in character without making it seem like royal romance. Anyway, hope you enjoyed their beautiful bromance so far. Even more panic to come. And Sherlock comes to an odd conclusion in the end...**

**Please tell me what you think! Thanks!**


	3. Chapter 3

He had found himself dozing while leaning back against the bedpost on Sherlock's bed. It had been just past seven in the morning. He'd been kipping at the end of Sherlock's bed, on and off, without much thought of it. There was no one to see them, and on top of that, John's body was konking off without his own mental processing to tell it to do so. He was too tired.

After a few hours of rough sleep, and a backache, John was roused awake by a series of terrible sounding coughs.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, you okay?"

"I'll be-" more coughing- "f-fine, John."

"I'll get you some more tea, hang on," he muttered, sliding out of bed.

"W-What..." Sherlock trailed off, doubling over in his sitting position. John watched, although he was supposed to be getting tea for his sick friend, somewhat miserably. Once a coughing fit started, there was little that he could do to stop it.

"Crackers," he stated on a whim, walking quickly out of his flat and down to ask Mrs. Hudson if she had happened to pick up some salt crackers when she went to the store on Monday. She had. She was a saint.

He took the crackers back to Sherlock, prompting that he nibble on them. Crackers would sometimes help a cough and John couldn't see where Sherlock had anything to lose.

It ended sometime thereafter, with John making more tea and Sherlock clinging to crackers and his blankets like they were the only two things that were keeping him breathing.

"Let me take your temperature again, Sherlock... If you think that you're not going to cough for a few seconds, okay?" He was talking to him like a child, but Sherlock didn't seem to notice. Sherlock didn't seem to be notice much past the spot on the wall that he was staring at. It was making John nervous.

He stood to go retrieve the thermometer when Sherlock caught his sleeve. John looked back at him, bewildered. "Sherlock," he started, but the latter cut him off.

"Don't leave."

Two words had never brought such panic into John, not even throughout his days in the war. There was nothing... nothing that he wouldn't do to never hear those words coming from Sherlock's mouth again.

"Sherlock, I'm not leaving..." he replied carefully, frowning. Sherlock's eyes were glazed and distant, the edgings of panic and distress creeping into them. There was a flush on his cheeks, sweat on his forehead but goosebumps on his arms, and his grip on John's arm was demanding but John was sure it was not strong. Sherlock did not look well.

"Don't go..." was the whispered response.

"Right. Of course..."

Sherlock muttered something under his breath before his fingers suddenly slipped off of John's sleeve. John caught his hand instinctively, noting the lack of tension.

"Sherlock?"

The rest of Sherlock's body went slack moments later, slumping forward.

"Oh, oh, okay, Sherlock. Sherlock? Come back to me." John caught him before he could slump entirely, settling him back against the pillows. "Sherlock, can you hear me?" he demanded, finger testing Sherlock's temperature. His forehead was sweltering.

John had gotten nervous when Sherlock had done the stare-off-into-space routine because that wasn't something that Sherlock did. Not with that glazed look in his eyes. When he stared off into space, there was usually a light of something, a thought or an idea, in those ever clear eyes. But it hadn't been that way at that moment and John should have known that something was up. He just ignored it, didn't he? And then Sherlock had gone into an almost pleading mode and the hairs on the back of John's neck had really stood up before the finale had taken place: Sherlock passing out.

Now John was rushing around the flat, thermometer, ice water, blankets in hand. He was muttering several different types of curses under his breath, most of them directed at Sherlock himself, as he battled the fever that was raging Sherlock's body.

A small part of himself was saying _get him to a hospital!_ while another part was rationalizing that, even if he tried, Sherlock would sneak out somehow. He'd give it a little bit longer and if Sherlock didn't resurface from his now forty celsius fever, he'd take him to the hospital. John was a doctor- he could handle this. Sherlock was his friend and he wasn't going to let anything happen to him.

* * *

It was... unexplainable. That was the only word that Sherlock could conjure and he was aware that it didn't explain what he was dealing with, but he deemed it the most suitable for the situation.

One minute he was thoroughly conscious of what was happening and the next he was swallowed by darkness. Not having time to blink off the confusion, he was semi-conscious again. It was like a drugged state... John! Had John drugged him?

The prickle of uneasiness started through him. It wasn't like John was totally trustworthy. He had even thought that John had been the bomber at one point. He'd mentally accused John. They were not friends. He felt no guilt in thinking he would do something like that.

But then another second later, he'd dismissed the thought. John had been too worried about him to actually do something like that. He had shot a guy for him. He had given Sherlock the go-ahead to blow up a building that they had little chance of getting out of alive. He had followed Sherlock through the city, chasing a killer. He would come if Sherlock said "dangerous"; he had come to look at a flat at him without knowing him; he would tackle an eight-foot man to protect him; he had refused to take money to spy on him from someone who had turned out to be his brother... John wouldn't do anything that would be bad for Sherlock. That much he was sure of, and Sherlock was rarely wrong.

Nonetheless, there was something weird going on and it was driving Sherlock crazy. There were so many things that he wasn't grasping at the time being, what with the constant in and outage of darkness and light. And those entrances into the worlds of darkness and then a reappearance into the world of light were topics of confusion in themselves.

Now? Right now? He was in the darkness. He thought. Maybe he was in the light and he just couldn't see, but that was the same difference, wasn't it?

It was all darkness, all around him. There was nothing else except that nagging suspicion that John _should_ be there, even if he wasn't.

He tried to open his mouth to voice his flatmate's name, but there was nothing that came out. He was so tired. The oppression of the darkness was something terrible by itself, but the exhaustion on top of the illness didn't make things any better.

His ears were ringing in an odd way, his legs were too heavy to move and he couldn't find his arms. Maybe that wasn't such a surprise, considering all of the other stuff that was happening to him right now. Not a surprise...

Just unsettling.

* * *

John hadn't left Sherlock's side since he went under, except for the bustling around the flat trying to get what he needed; to place the wet rags on Sherlock's face or to remove the blankets. He needed Sherlock awake, so he could drink, so he could get his internal temperature down because John couldn't do much unless Sherlock was awake to take medicine.

He'd placed in a call to the hospital to get some antibiotics. He was fairly sure that Sherlock had an acute case of the flu, maybe a touch of pneumonia. Hopefully the last part wasn't true, but John was making the worst assumptions, just in case.

He had been fine until Sherlock started dreaming, really.

He hadn't ever seen the detective dream. Actually, he had never really seen the detective sleep so much, but that was something that John would never bring up in so many words. There were things that needed to be mentioned, and that was not one of them. To the matter at hand: Sherlock dreaming. He looked uncomfortable, unpleasant thoughts probably racing through his head. His fingers were curled into loose fists, in a way that John was fairly sure that Sherlock did not sleep. Sherlock was a naturally relaxed person when he slept, lounging across whatever he happened to be passed out upon like there wasn't a care in the world. But now he was tense, body stiff even in sleep, eyelids flickering like he was on the verge of waking.

But he didn't and John watched his dreaming companion in a state of semi-sadness.

Sherlock whimpered. Actually whimpered. It was too much. John jolted across the room and shook the detective's shoulder roughly.

"Sherlock!" he hissed. He maybe shouldn't be trying to wake up someone who needed sleep, but he just couldn't... handle it. "Sherlock, wake up! It's just a nightmare!"

Sherlock awoke with a half strangled gasp, almost jumping out of bed. John caught him in an awkward hug. Sherlock didn't pull away.

"Sherl-" John's voice died in his throat. He couldn't bring himself to say anything, partially because he didn't know what to say. This was a new Sherlock, a very delicate Sherlock that he wasn't sure how to deal with.

He aways complained about Sherlock's self-centered attitude and general lack of care for the human race, but now he knew just one thing for sure.

He didn't like this new Sherlock.

"Sherlock... it's okay..." he started numbly, fingers tightening reflexively around the consulting detective. Those things that didn't need to be mentioned? This was one of them. Hopefully, due to his sickness hazed state, Sherlock wouldn't remember this. John didn't want to think about what he would do if he did.

"I need you to drink some water for me, alright?"

Sherlock mumbled something unintelligible, his hair tickling John's ear. John shivered. Sherlock was so far out there.

He managed to get Sherlock to drink some of the water, with some help, which got John a little more relaxed than he had been. As long as he could get Sherlock's internal temperature down... if he could do that... It would all be fine.

He upped the dosage of Sherlock's medicine to the strongest, safe amount before letting the detective fall back asleep. He'd just wait a half hour and check his temperature again. It would be fine...

If someone (namely Sherlock) was able to look past John's careful composure, they would be able to see the very irrational, the very paranoid, and the very worrisome part of mind. Thankfully, John didn't listen to that part of his mind. Much.

But. It was still there, still nagging in the background.

_He's too sick, John! You need to take him to the hospital!_

What good was that going to do? Sherlock would pitch a fit the moment that he realized that he was in there, which, with Sherlock Holmes, would not take very long.

_He's out of it now! How could he possibly know?_

He didn't expect for the fever to be numbing Sherlock's mind for long. When someone went under like that, they usually came back sooner rather than later, especially if they were pumped full of medicine, like Sherlock was. Especially Sherlock.

_He could _die, _John! You are a doctor but sometimes you have to accept that you can't save everybody! Listen to Sherlock, for once in your life: there are _no_ heroes in real life! You can't save someone who needs more help!_

That had been the point where John had stopped listening to his mental arguement. He refused to believe that he couldn't save Sherlock, because John was a doctor and he was a damn good one at that. If he couldn't save his friend, no one could. He didn't trust Sherlock in the hands of anyone else.

* * *

**Crackers help me when I have a terrible cough. That might just be me, though. **

**Sensitive Sherlock and Doctor John. Sherlock's not surprised and John's arguing with himself. Goodness, a sick Sherlock makes everything difficult.**

**Reviews are loved! Thanks so much! Still a few more chapters to go!**


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock yawned when he woke up, rolling over in the bed. He was... oddly exhausted. Like he hadn't slept in days. Now that was possible, he knew, but he also felt like he had been sleeping, too. It didn't make much sense, but he wasn't trying to figure it out.

He, eventually, tried to get out of bed. It didn't go over well. There was a general feeling of malaise clinging to every ounce of his body, preventing him from moving. No more than had he sat up, John came barging into the bedroom.

"Well, I see you're awake."

Sherlock glanced up at John. "You look hideous, John."

"... You're feeling better, too." John turned and walked out again. Sherlock frowned, watching him go.

Sherlock made to stand but his legs didn't cooperate. They collapsed out from under him and he just barely caught himself against the wall, slumping back against it with a shaky breath.

He still hadn't worked up enough strength to try walking again (he barely had enough to stand) when John walked back in.

"Sit down."

"Actually, I was walking."

"Didn't get very far, now did you?"

Sherlock made a noncommental noise, watching John as he sat down a bowl on the night stand. He tried to detect what it was to no avail; his nose was stuffy and it made trying to smell virtually impossible. Disgruntled, he leaned slightly to look into the bowl; oh, it was simply chicken noodle soup. Dull.

"Come sit."

"I would really rather not."

He coughed slightly, flinching slightly. He really hoped John hadn't noticed that. But John noticed everything when it came to things such as this, things such as sickness.

"Sit down, Sherlock. Eat."

"I don't eat when I'm working," he replied automatically, although he pushed away from the wall and managed to stumbled the foot or two back to bed without looking so much of an idiot.

"Yes, well, you don't sleep when you're working, either, and that's all you've been doing. So, eat."

Sherlock tucked into the soup without much complaint. He was hungry, although he wouldn't admit that to John.

"You've been... sick, Sherlock. So sick," John muttered, sinking into the bed. Sherlock tightened his grip on the bowl as not to spill. It was very good soup, after all. His sense of taste was not impaired yet. "It's been a day and a half." Sherlock's attention was jolted by those words. It had been a day and a half? He had been asleep for a day and a half? Was that even remotely possible, for him?

"... Really. I hadn't noticed," he replied, taking a spoonful of soup and blowing on it.

"Your fever finally went down. It was at forty, Sherlock. Forty _degrees_ celsius." John didn't particularly sound angry or worried. He just sounded tired.

"That's a bit not good."

"A bit..." John trailed off, half laughing under his breath. "Yeah, that's a bit not good."

They went off into a comfortable silence, Sherlock eating his soup and John watching him. The silence was comfortable but Sherlock wasn't wholly comfortable with the staring down he was receiving. He just ignored it and went on his way.

He had finished his soup not much later and John took the bowl out. Sherlock was finally in complete silence, that didn't involve eyes being on him. It was... refreshing.

He yawned, pushing himself into a sitting position again. He was still a bit woozy but he was determined to walk to the bathroom by himself. It was only a few feet away, after all.

No more than had he put his mental abilities to getting up, there was a hand clasping his shoulder. He almost jumped- almost. He looked back around at John, wondering how the doctor had managed to sneak up on him. Maybe his resistance was down a lot further than he actually thought.

"Time to rethink," Sherlock murmured under his breath.

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing."

"And where did you think you were going?"

"Out for a stroll, John."

"Very funny. Lay down-"

"John-"

"-or let me help you."

"I'm fine." They stared at each other. John's gaze was tired, mixed with anger, irritation, and concern. Oh yes, there was an overabundance of concern. Sherlock didn't like it. "I can walk to the bathroom. It's right there, in case you forgot."

"I really don't think you can. You just collapsed into the wall trying to stand." John knew how to irritate him. Sherlock hated that, too. "Let me help." He removed his hand from Sherlock's shoulder and offered it.

Sherlock stared at it for a moment, contemplative...

...before flopping backwards onto the duvet, drawing the extra blankets around him and over his head.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock didn't respond, only tightened his grip on the blankets in response. He thought it was response enough.

"For God's sake, if you have to use the loo, then go!"

"I'm perfectly fine," Sherlock replied, voice muffled by the blankets. He was fine for a few more hours. Transitional epithilium worked wonders and he had a strong tolerance for this sort of thing. He would have let John assist him if he-

No, no, he wouldn't have.

Sherlock had realized something, upon waking up. He had been overtaken by a rush of awareness, and with it, a wave of disgust.

John's touch. He remembered that he had been pondering John's touch.

He had been upset. John had put a hand on him. It had calmed him down. The mechanics had been simple enough, but yet, it had baffled Sherlock to the point of being enraged. He had figured out the meaning behind the touch. He had figured out why John had done it to begin with.

It was sentiment.

Touch was a form of comfort, and comfort was something that John obviously had to excel in, being a doctor and all. So, that careless touch, the thumping he'd received and the light rubbing of his back afterwards, was something that was programmed into John's hard drive. And... hence the wave of disgust... Sherlock had fallen victim to this form of sentiment. This comfort had... _comforted_ him.

It made him want to vomit. Again.

Sherlock was avoiding physical contact now, or trying to. He didn't need to become a victim to any more of those creature comforts. He did not _want_ to be put through any more of them. He didn't want to become climatized to such things and so, if that meant putting off the bathroom for a few hours, so be it.

John muttered something unconstructive under his breath before Sherlock felt his blankets being pulled away; he didn't argue simply for the fact that he knew he still had a fever and that, while his mind was saying he was cold (this one instance, his mind was wrong, and that's really what he hated about illness), his body was actually hot.

Irrationally, he could feel himself dropping off into sleep again. That had been all he had been doing, hadn't it, sleeping? What a waste of time... What a dull, boring waste of time...

* * *

The audacity of Sherlock Holmes was something that John was ninety-nine perfect sure he was never going to figure out. He didn't even say 'thank you' once! Not once! John had taken care of him for almost two days, running on little sustenance himself, to recieve only a rude brush off when he tried to help Sherlock to his feet! The nasty little bugger wouldn't even accept help to the loo... In all of his talents, Sherlock Holmes was a lazy, arrogant, ungrateful sod.

John sighed, the noise echoing through the quiet of the flat. He raised a hand to rub at his face wearily, pressing hard on his eyes and trying to work out the exhaustion. It wouldn't work. He needed sleep. Sherlock was fine for now. John just needed sleep.

Just needed some sleep...

God, sleep sounded nice right now. Too bad there was no rest for the weary.

* * *

** I'm getting into a bit of a 'short chapter' territory. Let me apologize ahead of time. I planned to end this story at the next chapter, but... It's a hit! I love that it's a hit! And I know that if you stretch things out, it can get tedious; however, I tihnk I found a good twist in the plot. I like where I have it going. I hope you guys will, too.**

**The twist occurs in the next chapter.**

**Anyhow, Sherlock's getting better. :)**

**So, any ideas you guys are looking for? I'm not going to change my plot or my relationship status (they are going to stay _just friends_, so that's not my twist), but any little moments, little things that are random that you would like to see, if I can work them in, I will. Just let me know via a review.**

**I love your thoughts and continued patronage! Keep on reviewing! Thank you!**


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock was completely in control of himself when he woke up the next time. It was just past three p.m. He was still a bit disgusted that he had slept that long.

He nipped off to the bathroom upon waking; the idea that he couldn't have made the short walk before seemed absurd now. He must have been able to; John must have marred his thinking, made him think that he wouldn't have been able to walk that far. John's fault.

He slipped into the living room, circling around to the kitchen. His mouth tasted like hell. Even though the last thing he had eaten had been that soup, his mouth tasted like a combination of vomit and cotton. He wasn't sure how that happened, but he determined to get rid of the taste.

It wasn't until he was sipping at his tea, wandering around the flat with still-cramped legs, did he notice John.

The doctor was sitting on the couch, head resting on his fist. For a moment, Sherlock thought John was watching him again. But, after a quick deduction (eyes closed, body slumped, breathing evened out), he realized that John was asleep.

Sherlock stood, watching him for a moment. He contemplated sitting his teacup down and forcing the doctor into a bed or, at the very least, a more comfortable position. He arrived at the most possible outcome of this, John yelling at him, and he let it go. He didn't need John angry with him again. It got annoying when he was.

So, instead, he stood, sipping at his tea, eyes locked on John.

Sleeping was boring. Sherlock hated sleeping. But John did it so easily, so effortlessly, and made it seem so attractive. Well, almost.

He seemed so utterly peaceful. John was a man of action. He had been a military man. He was a doctor now. He was Sherlock's colleague. So, he was a man who loved action. He was always busy, he always kept his mind going (more than most people of his caliber), and he seemed to not like inactivity. Except sleep. Maybe for John, sleep was a good thing, though. His body lost all of the tension it normally held, his forehead smoothed out, and he looked so peaceful that it made Sherlock think that sleep was essential to people of John's caliber.

Sherlock sighed after some contemplation, deciding that it was a lost cause to try and wonder if sleep was essential or beneficial to people like John. He wasn't a person like John, so he figured it was pretty much stupid to think about.

He trailed back to the kitchen to place his teacup into the sink. This was boring. Oh well. He'd just go back to his experiment that was currently stashed under his bed, hidden away from John.

Well, actually, he had something else to do first.

* * *

John woke up, yawning, completely stiff and utterly uncomfortable. He groaned slightly, stretching his arms above his head. The blanket that had been around his shoulders fell haphazardly onto the couch.

It was only after the motion had occured that he frowned, pinching the fabric of the blanket between his fingers. Blanket? He hadn't fallen asleep with a blanket. Blinking, he glanced in the direction of Sherlock's bedroom.

He stumbled to his feet, blinking hard. God, he was tired. His head was just throbbing. He was just going to check on Sherlock and then he would nip upstairs and get some proper rest. Time of day be damned, he was exhausted.

"Sherlock? You okay?" he questioned, pushing the door open. Empty. John frowned, a slight panic rising in his stomach. He turned back around right as Sherlock walked out of the bathroom. He jumped. "Jeez, Sherlock!"

After the initial shock, John let his eyes assess Sherlock as he mentally coaxed his heart into a calmer state. The detective looked much better. He had regained his colour, the slight bit that he had at all, anyway, his eyes were clearer and much more brighter, and he was able to stand on his own two feet without swaying. That looked good. John reached up to press his hand against Sherlock's forehead; Sherlock didn't fight it although he tensed up immediately. John didn't understand his aversion to physical contact, but now wasn't the time. His forehead was warm, but damp, and the way that water droplets clung to the dark hair and eyelashes spoke to John of a recent shower. It was highly unlikely that Sherlock would take a cold shower, so John couldn't trust the surface temperature of his skin just yet.

"I see you're awake," Sherlock replied, brushing past John to the bedroom.

"I see you are, too." John's gaze followed Sherlock as the detective paraded around his room, picking up various things. Compared to the rest of the cluttered mess in the flat, Sherlock's room was amazingly neat.

"Obviously."

John slumped against the doorframe of Sherlock's bedroom, letting his eyes slip shut. They stayed shut for a second too long, it seemed, as Sherlock voiced an inquiry.

"Are you alright?"

John's eyes sprang open again. "Yes, I'm fine. How are you feeling?" He was fine, asides from being tired. He was so God forsaken tired that he was fairly sure that he could have fallen asleep against Sherlock's door right now.

"Wasteful. Dull. Irritated."

"That's really not what I meant. Illness wise?" John prompted.

"Fine."

"Sherlock..."

"Bit achy."

"Fine. Take some more paracetamol at 4:00. You also need to take an antibiotic once a day for the next five days. You've already had today's dose."

Sherlock gave him a hateful look. "You got antibiotics?"

"I'm fairly sure you had a touch of pneumonia. Trust me, I did not want to get antibiotics, either, but something had to give."

John didn't know how easily it was for Sherlock to relapse, because he obviously had had a history with drugs, so he hated giving Sherlock _anything_. Even paracetamol. Maybe he was being too cautious, but he also knew that Sherlock's mind worked in weird ways, so the more that he could keep Sherlock away from any drug, the better.

"Ugh," was Sherlock's ungrateful reply.

"You know, just once, you could say 'thank you'."

"Why on earth would I do that?"

John knew that it was Sherlock's reflex to avoid 'thank you's. He knew that it was a reflex to say that he was fine, that he didn't need help, and all of that. But at Sherlock's quick reply, John felt the surprise spring up on his face before he could stop it.

Sherlock Holmes had a knack for hurting people, even if he couldn't see it himself.

"Oh, I don't know," John replied, turning and striding off down the hallway. He had put up with too much Sherlock for the past twenty-four hours. They had been glued at the hip, almost. He had put up with sick Sherlock, ungrateful Sherlock, irritated Sherlock, argumentive Sherlock, pathetic Sherlock, demanding Sherlock, pleading Sherlock, confused Sherlock... Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. John realized that, on top of sleep, he just needed John time.

He stumbled on the stairs, cursing himself for his clumsiness. His feet felt heavy. All of his extremities felt heavy, actually.

_Oh, come on, John, you're a staircase away from your bedroom. Then you can sleep._

It was bit more pressing than just sleep, though. He paused on the landing, fingers tightening reflexively around the banister. His head was throbbing, pounding, making his ears ache. He blinked hard to clear it; he opened his eyes to find darkness starting to take the edges of his vision.

In a split second, because he suddenly knew that was all he had, he realized that this wasn't just being tired. This was a half second away from passing out.

He tried to move away from the stairs, but he felt disconnected from his body. His voice worked for a quarter of a second. "Sher-"

Darkness swallowed him whole.

* * *

**And there's my twist. -Innocent smile- And now it's time for further reviews! Yes? Haha!**

**Thanks for reading!**


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock hadn't had a clue why John had seemed so annoyed when he had stormed out of his room. Then again, he didn't put much thought to it.

He had noticed, though, a few seconds later, John's footfalls on the stairs. A couple stairs, followed by a stumble. A few more stairs, and then silence. That was only one staircase, up or down, only enough stairs to get to either landing but not the other floor. Sherlock had frowned and looked up towards the ceiling. There had been more silence... and then Sherlock had heard the faintest utterance of his name and a heavy thud.

He took off at a dead run out of his room.

"John?"

Sherlock knew how everything in this flat worked, including John. There were ten steps to each staircase, two staircases to every floor, a landing in between each floor. John's room was above Sherlock's. That was a staircase, a landing, another staircase, and then a door into John's room. Twenty steps on the stairs, two or three to cross the landing, another two or three to get into John's room. John had taken ten steps, which put him precariously close to the edge of the first staircase, before either a) falling, b) collapsing, c) deciding to sleep on the floor. The latter seemed very unlikely for John. The first wouldn't be entirely uncommon, but John didn't trip much. The second, Sherlock couldn't place a reason unless John was suffering from hypotension, but it didn't mean it couldn't happen.

"John!" He found the good doctor passed out on the landing, just where Sherlock thought he would be. "John?" He crouched next to him, hooking his arms under John's to pull him away from the edge of the stairs. "Mrs. Hudson!" he yelled, fingers busy with loosening John's tie. (Why was he wearing a tie today, anyway? Force of habit? Perhaps so.)

Mrs. Hudson's light footfalls alerted Sherlock to her arrival.

"Sherlock, dear?" Sherlock could imagine that she was peering into their flat.

"Call an ambulance," he said calmly, fingers looped around John's wrist as he monitored his pulse. He didn't think it was anything particularly pressing, but figured that it was maybe a good idea to have John checked out, anyway.

Mrs. Hudson's worried face peered up the staircase. "Are you okay, Sherlock?" She paused upon spotting John, still laying on the floor. "Oh my... Sherlock, what have you done?"

Sherlock sighed heavily. Mrs. Hudson took that as a reminder and hurried down the stairs in a fluster.

He hooked his arms John's again, pulling him into a sitting position against his own chest. The last thing that he needed John to do was freak out upon waking up and take a tumble down the stairs.

Speaking of waking up, Sherlock felt John stiffen against his chest. Sherlock removed his arms from the doctor, although didn't lower his guard. John sat up straight, coughed, and groaned quietly under his breath.

"Feeling better?" Sherlock monotoned, staring down at the blonde hair. He felt John jump before the doctor looked back at him. "You passed out. Caused quite the crash. I'm fairly sure that you have no broken bones, though. Might have you hit your head?" He resisted the urge to prod at John's head; the only thing with treating someone else was that you could never be totally sure what they were feeling.

John opened his mouth to respond, Sherlock presumed, but instead, gave an unnatural pause before proceeding to vomit all over the landing floor. Sherlock cringed back into the wall, wrinkling his nose in disgust. "John...!"

Sherlock prided himself in not being squeamish, but when one was about three inches away from getting vomited on... Sherlock didn't mind most bodily fluids, but vomit was just downright disgusting. Urine was sterile. Tears, while annoying, cleaned and lubricated the eye. Saliva helped with digestion and, maybe, even possibly helped to disinfect wounds. Vomit... Well, it had benefits, but it was just... disgusting. Especially when one vomited out their nose.

John coughed again, waving away Sherlock's complaints. "I-I'm fine. Fine," he muttered, letting out a deep breath.

"I am not cleaning that up."

"Great, Sherlock," John replied, making to stand.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock shot back, lacing his fingers into the belt loops on John's jeans. "Can you stand?"

"Well, I'd love to try," John replied quickly, a bite of anger to his voice. Other than that, and overlooking the sudden precipitate vomiting slash fainting, John seemed to be fine.

Mrs. Hudson came back up the stairs. "How are you feeling, dear?"

"Fine, Mrs. Hudson. Don't worry."

"He's just vomited all over the stair."

"The ambulance will be here soon. I'll get a mop."

"Ambulance, why?" John swiveled his head to look at Sherlock, glaring. "Why would you call 999?"

"I didn't. Mrs. Hudson did."

"You told her!"

"Don't normal people call ambulances when someone passes out?"

"You're not normal!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Just stay here until-"

"I'm going to be sick again."

Sherlock let go of John's belt loops almost immediately. "Stay." He swung onto his feet and took the steps two at a time, pivoted into the kitchen and grabbed the bucket from under the kitchen sink before bolting back up.

"What is this rubbish?"

"Well, obviously, John, it's a bucket."

"What have you had in it?"

Sherlock shrugged eloquently. He had had a variety of things in it, none that John really needed to know. "Come on, let's go down." He slipped his hands into his pockets and headed downstairs.

"Sherlock..."

He glanced over his shoulder. John had stood up, but was leaning back against the wall for support. Sherlock narrowed his eyes a bit and backed up. "Put your arm around my neck."

"Huh?"

"Your arm. My neck."

"Oh." John looked uncomfortable for a half second before he became very busy with the bucket. Sherlock exhaled slowly, looking towards the window. How tedious.

It was probably just a vasovagal episode, nothing to worry about. John was right- he hadn't needed to call an ambulance. It was just a brief loss of consciousness and nothing-

A clack, followed by another thud.

Sherlock swiveled back to John. Unconscious again.

He frowned as he stared down at his unconscious colleague, the sirens of the ambulance becoming prominent in the background.

Maybe this wasn't as simple as Sherlock had been led to think.

* * *

Thirty minutes later found the consulting detective and Mrs. Hudson in St. Barts. Mrs. Hudson was chatting with one of the nurses, going on about knitting and pain relievers, Sherlock reckoned. He himself was standing at the window, his fingers tapping out an erratic beat on the windowframe.

Maybe it wasn't a vasovagal episode. It was unlikely that John would go unconscious twice in less than five minutes if it was. So, he had ruled that out. Now he was trying to reason what could be ailing John- and he found it wasn't working.

His head was aching and he was antsy; he wanted to pace the floors and maybe even see John, to possibly assess the damage himself. Instead, he was placating himself by tapping on the windowframe and trying to keep himself calm while ignoring his headache.

"He'll be fine, Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson suddenly there, behind him, and Sherlock was cursing in every language that he knew (which was a lot) at his awareness.

"Of course he'll be fine, why wouldn't he be fine?" he snapped back.

"You just seem nervous, dear," she replied, laying a hand on his shoulder.

Flaring his nostrils, he terminated the tapping of his fingers. Nervous habits were bad. He didn't like habits of any kind, so best to kick that before it got started.

"I'm fine."

"Sherlock?"

A wave of relief washed over Sherlock at the ever familiar voice. He glanced over his shoulder, eyes taking in the form of Doctor John Watson. Other than looking a little pale, and a little confused, he looked... fine.

"John," Mrs. Hudson greeted, removing her hand from Sherlock's shoulder and going to John. "How are you feeling?"

Sherlock stayed where he was, looking back out the window. Oh, how ridiculous he had been. Emotions. How could have he been ensnared into their clutches once again?

"I'm okay. Just a bit of low blood pressure. I'm fine."

"You gave us such a fright."

"Oh, sorry, Mrs. Hudson." John paused. "I hate that I dragged both of you here for no reason."

"Oh, it's no problem, love."

"Quite. Let's go," Sherlock added, drawing his coat closer to himself. He stepped out into the bright of the day, casting his eyes towards the setting sun.

He heard Mrs. Hudson and John talking quietly as they trailed behind him. The landlady was being persuaded by John to go visit with Mrs. Turner. Mrs. Hudson was arguing that John needed her attention. Sherlock ended the conversation by telling Mrs. Hudson to take the rest of the night off. With a glance that seemed to convey volumes, Mrs. Hudson nodded. Sherlock didn't take the time to assess what she thought he was thinking. They parted ways.

John and Sherlock's cab ride home was full of silence.

"So," Sherlock stated as he hung up his coat, "hypotension?"

John glanced up from untying his shoes. "Um, yeah. A bit."

"Much have been pretty low for you to pass out twice."

"I guess."

"And the vomiting?"

"Dunno. Maybe I got into a spot of bad food. God knows what you keep in the cupboards."

"Hm." Sherlock nodded absently, sinking into his armchair.

"I'm off to bed. Keep the violin down."

"Sure," he replied airily.

John clomped up the stairs, clearing all twenty steps of the cases this time. Sherlock heard the door to John's room swung shut.

He let out a quick breath after John had gone, eyebrows furrowed. He was... worried. He was agitated.

_What am I missing here...? _he thought to himself.

* * *

**Since everybody flipped tables at the end of the last chapter, I figured I'd be lovely and update quickly. So, here we are. I... I dunno. I really love this chapter even though there's not much to talk about *o* Haha... -Awkward smile- I hope you like it, too.**

**P.S. The twist... hasn't twisted all the way. (It'll get exciting again -Smile- Not necessarily in the good way, but, you know... :P)**


	7. Chapter 7

John awoke to silence. The last time that he had woken up to silence, Sherlock had been sick. Now John was waking up to silence that-

-was disturbed by a sudden coughing spell of his own.

Choking and spluttering for breath, he fought against the blankets and a swell of nausea as he took the stairs a reckless two-at-a-time, bolting the small distance to the bathroom. He didn't mind that the door was closed; some times called for desperate measures. (Besides, Sherlock had walked in one too many time while John had been in the shower, going on about experiments or looking for loose body parts, etcetera.)

He didn't notice the lack of movement in the bath until he had finished vomiting, five minutes later.

"Sorry, Sherlock- don't know what's come over... me." His voice faltered at the end as he had glanced over his shoulder out of habit, towards the bath. Sherlock, in all of his lanky glory, was stretched out in the too-cramped bathtub, his knees drawn up. He was lounging back, eyes closed. That wasn't the thing that stopped John's speech.

There was a bottle of pills on the edge of the tub.

"Sherlock?" John's voice rose a few octaves; he found it cracking before he could even assess the damage. He crossed the room in two strides, swiping the bottle out of the way and taking Sherlock's wrist between his fingers. "Sherlock? Sherlock, open your eyes, please," he muttered, a whisper, a plea. "Please, Sherlock..."

The slightest pulse. John thought he was going to pass out again, he was so light-headed from relief. But, no time to relax. He checked to make sure Sherlock was breathing just as quickly, before grabbing the pill bottle. Oxycontin. John swore lightly under his breath.

In the tedious precious seconds that it took John to get Sherlock out of the bathtub and into the recovery position on the floor, he was pretty sure that his blood pressure had gone from too low, to way too high.

He took off running to his bedroom, wrenching his bottom dresser drawer open. He knew that he shouldn't be leaving Sherlock in his state, but there wasn't much he could do. Desperate times, desperate measures... He flung the clothes out of the dresser, pulling out the sterile syringe he kept in the drawer. With it, a vial of Naloxone.

John hated the idea that he kept Naloxone in his bottom drawer. _Hated_ it. But it was just in case. Just in case of a time like this.

How had it become a danger night? Nothing had even happened!

He rejoined Sherlock as quickly as possible to find his patient still breathing, and barely, before injecting the antidote. "Wake up, you bastard!" he hissed, pulling the syringe out and dialing 999 on his cell with his free hand.

The next three and a half minutes were the longest of John's life.

Sherlock woke up, choking and gasping. "Jo-!"

"I'm right here," John replied. His voice was calm. He was grateful for that.

"Jo- John," Sherlock spluttered.

"It's okay, Sherlock." John, nonchalantly, curled his fingers around the bottle of Oxycontin, pulling them into his lap and away from Sherlock's eyes.

"John, you- what did you- huh." He coughed, doubling over.

John watched him somewhat miserably. Sirens were beginning to be heard. He glanced towards the window. Suddenly, Sherlock's hand grasped at his arm, squeezing tight.

"John, what did you do with it."

"Sherlock... You're hurting me." Apparently, it was the wrong thing to alert Sherlock to. The detective's grip tightened. "Sherlock...!"

"What did you do with _the pills!_"

John ripped Sherlock's hand away from his arm, intertwining his fingers with the detective's, instead. "Listen to me, you don't need them, Sherlock! You don't!"

"_John!_" Sherlock growled, before subsiding into a coughing fit again.

If the three and a half minutes waiting for the Naloxone to work had been torture, John didn't know what this was.

The EMTs found them still in the bathroom, Sherlock sitting in the fetal position, hair plastered to his head with water from the bath, trembling as if he had drowned recently, not overdosed.

John didn't follow them to the hospital. Instead, he stayed sitting on the bathroom floor. He noticed that he still had the pills in his hand. He raised them, eyes bouncing off the words on the pills. _Please use responsibly. _

"Damn you, Sherlock!" The bottle left his hand, pills scattering across the bathroom. He buried his face into his hands and wept.

* * *

"John."

John glanced up at the sound of his name as he walked into the hospital. Across the waiting room, Mycroft and Lestrade were sitting. John nodded a greeting, crossing the hospital to join them.

"'lo."

"Afternoon, Greg," John replied, sinking into the chair next to him. "You heard?"

"It doesn't exactly stay a secret long that Sherlock Holmes got carted off to the ER."

"Oh." John folded his hands in his lap. "Right."

"John," Mycroft started. John looked at him. "So, it was a danger night."

"Apparently."

"Why?"

John shrugged. Mycroft gave him that _look_. John frowned. "I swear, I have no idea. I was asleep, woke up, and then, I ended up here myself."

"What happened to you?" Greg asked, frowning.

"LBP, I guess. I dunno. I'm fine." He looked back to Mycroft. "I went to bed, woke up ill, found Sherlock in the bathtub. Nothing was different. I guess you could chalk it off as boredom?"

"I don't know about that. He's been sick, right?"

"Sherlock was sick?" Greg interrupted. John nodded. "Poor bastard. Maybe that's why he did it."

"Yes, but would he really overdose on drugs to get over a illness down?" Even after John said it, he knew Sherlock would.

They fell into an uncomfortable silence.

John didn't know why he had come. He would have much rathered stay home. He didn't feel great, mentally or physically, but he didn't know how he thought he would feel the first time he found Sherlock near death, anyway. He hadn't known what to expect, emotion wise, but this was it.

He sighed quietly. He wasn't Sherlock, but he didn't miss the look that Greg gave him. Mycroft didn't give looks of concern, so John would have more concerned if he had.

"You need a break, mate."

"Maybe. But you can't take a break with Sherlock Holmes," John replied.

"God only knows how much I understand that."

Mycroft, at their side, just sighed.

* * *

**I don't know much about drug overdose, Oxycontin, or Naloxone. I spent hours (I say a bit ashamedly) trying to research. If I got anything wrong, it's because of limited knowledge and faulty internet searches. :P**

**I'm so sorry that the chapters keep getting shorter! I don't plan how long for them to be; I just find that it has to end where it has to end! I'll strive to make the upcoming chapters a bit longer. There should be a few more chapters... Two to three, perhaps. I hope I can say that this story becomes my top story for reviews- my top story has about 120 or 130 or something. You guys can beat it, right? I'd be so appreciative!**

**Just to say, you guys are awesome. I don't respond to reviews very much, apologies for that, but I really do appreciate each and every one of you. You guys inspire me so much. Keep it up. Thank you so much.**


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock stared at the ceiling of the hospital room, regulating his breathing the best that he could.

He hated hospitals. He hated hospitals even more when he was the one in the bed.

He took a deep breath, willing away nausea. He should have been used to this by now, shouldn't have he? He had spend a good deal of time in the hospital before, for this very same reason. He didn't understand why people _insisted_ on putting him in this forsaken place for a drug addiction; there were drugs all around him! They put people on drugs all the time here! Morphine being one of the worst! One of the worst for him, anyway, but that was an addiction that he had, more or less, worked his way past. For now.

The pills were easier, quicker and more reliable. There was a sense of greater danger about them, even more since the day that the cabbie had tried to talk Sherlock into playing that ridiculous game. Sherlock had been sure that he was right. He had felt no harm in taking that pill. He didn't know why John had gotten so worked up about it in the first place.

John. This was all John's fault.

Stupid, sentimental John. He had gone and upset Sherlock all through his sickness. And _then_, Sherlock had gotten sick and John had upset him even more. Now, when Sherlock got better, John seemed to get worse, and Sherlock hadn't had the time to work past his brief interaction with sentiment. It was still there, fresh on the skin, and it had ensnared him again when John was taken to the hospital. He had been... nervous, scared, worried? He wasn't sure how he had felt. It hadn't been a good feeling. He'd hated it. He had been determined to get rid of the emotional cloudy haze that had been pervading his mind.

Oxycontin was the first thing that he had laid eyes on.

Oxycontin was bliss in a bottle. The initial pill was just a feel good. 30mg made an interesting trip. Push it to 70mg and his mind was _flying_. He was just happy, just plain happy. No emotions, besides bliss, could bother him.

The beeping of the heart monitor brought him back to the real world. He took another deep breath. Places likes this made him want to go back to the drugs even more. He couldn't stand the way that these places made him _feel_.

He had seen Mycroft brush past his room. He had been watching through his eyelashes, giving the impression of being asleep while maintaining his surveillance.

The fact that Sherlock was here at all was the proof that John had called an ambulance. He supposed it could have been Mrs. Hudson, too, but she wouldn't have found him so early, much less in the bathroom. So, John had to be here, too.

It had been almost an hour since he'd woken up. They still had him on _oxygen_. Actually, he was only on oxygen when they were looking. He removed it when they weren't. The heart monitor wasn't something that he could just evade. He was connected to that. He was trapped to that-

The beeping picked up once again.

Thankfully, John (as annoying and stupid as he could be) had the knack for timing. The doctor slid the door open and walked in, being closely followed by Lestrade. Sherlock felt his eyes roll of their own accord.

"Hey," John greeted.

"Morning," Sherlock replied, looking towards the ceiling again. He tried to tune out the beeping. It wasn't getting any better. He swallowed reflexively.

"Feeling better?"

"I felt fine."

"I'm sure you did." John didn't sound condenscending. It surprised Sherlock a little. He nodded in acknowledgement.

There was some silence. Sherlock eventually broke it by asking where Mycroft was.

"He's talking to the doctor."

"When can I leave?"

"I don't know."

"I'd wager soon. It's been an hour since I woke up, by the looks of that clock on the wall. The Naloxone that you injected me with took forty-five minutes, approximentally, to wear off, followed by the doctors pumping my stomach. I got into the bath around nine this morning, and, although I'm not sure when you found me, I'd reason around an hour later so-"

Lestrade spoke up. "Take it easy, Sherlock. Save deductions for crime."

Sherlock fell silent. It wasn't necessary to say how the deductions distracted him. It was at a time like this that he needed the distractions. He raised a hand to card his fingers through his hair, irritable, but found his fingers catching the wires of the cardiac monitor instead, on accident.

His breathing hitched. So did the cardiac monitor.

"Sherlock, you need to keep the oxygen on. And watch your fingers." John's doctoral training was taking over. He guided the wires away from Sherlock's fingers. Handed him back the oxygen tube.

Sherlock didn't take it. Instead, he let out a deep breath, that shook, squeezing his eyes shut.

"I'm... going to talk with Mycroft. I'll visit back," Lestrade said after a moment, the door opening and closing again as he left.

"Sherlock..."

"I'm fine, John." Too quick of a response. He knew he responded too quickly after he had responded.

"Sherlock, look at me. _Look_ at me."

Sherlock opened his eyes, staring at John. "What?"

"You're fine. Okay?"

"Of course I'm fine," Sherlock responded stubbornly. "Why wouldn't I be fine?"

John gave him a look that reminded him spectacularly of Mycroft. Sherlock almost smirked.

He was supposed to be terribly annoyed with John right now. John's _sentiment_ had caused all of this. But Sherlock couldn't stay irritated with John. He wondered why.

_Maybe because he's your friend_? nagged a little voice in the back of his head. He ignored it.

John coughed. Sherlock felt his face crumple again. Just when he worked past _concern_-

_He _is _your friend, Sherlock Holmes! John Watson _is _your friend!_

If he let himself think that John was his friend... would it change things that much?

He flinched when he realized John was still coughing.

"John, I think you are the one who needs to be in this bed, not me."

John waved the statement away, his hand clutching at Sherlock's bed afterwards. Sherlock watched him, frowning. That wasn't hypotension. There was something else...

"Oh... jeez," John breathed, when he could speak.

"What? What's wrong?" Sherlock demanded, sitting up against the pillows.

"Blood," John replied. "Mucus and blood..." He sank weakly into the nearby chair. "Wonderful."

"If you would just stop relapsing, we might be able to-" He stopped suddenly.

Relapse. Harsh cough. Mucus. Blood. Exhaustion. Fainting. Nausea. Vomiting. The quick onset of symptoms. The stress. The worry, the panic, the care of a sick patient. Lack of sleep, lack of appetite. When he factored in that John had been sick, almost a week ago now, for a period of time with a terrible illness... Idiots! That wasn't hypotension!

"You have pneumonia!" John flinched at his sudden outburst. "You're suffering from a relapse of pneumonia! Go check in, now."

"What?" John just looked bemused.

"You had pneumonia, or, at the very least, a case of walking pneumonia. The symptoms got better, but then the stress of taking care of me," he inserted a dirty look, "probably caused a relapse of the symptoms and now you're where you are now. If you don't get it checked out soon, you'll end up in ICU rather quickly because the second onslaught of symptoms can progress quite quickly. Hypotension, how stupid, how could they make such a stupid mistake; John, you had to have noticed that their diagnosis was wrong."

"Well, I thought something was... Hang on, what are you doing?"

Sherlock had forced himself into a sitting position, determined to get out of the bed if it killed him. He was fine, and John wasn't.

"Got to get you checked in."

"Sherlock, lay down. You're working yourself up."

"You've already worked yourself up," Sherlock replied.

"Not really," John started, but coughing took him again.

Sherlock watched John's face turn three shades paler. He was out of bed in the next second, efficiently dislodging the sensors. The cardiac monitor flatlined.

"Oh, distressing," Sherlock muttered, catching John before the doctor could collapse to the floor.

Three different nurses rushed into the room. Mycroft, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson were clustered at the door. Sherlock waved at them briefly as he shouted at the nurses, going on about pneumonia and fixing John and _getting those sensors the hell away from him_.

One thing was for sure: this was probably the hospital's busiest day yet.

* * *

**I don't think people were thrilled with last chapter. Not many people reviewed. Maybe they were in shock. xD I still have you all, right?**

**Anyway, for those that asked, there's the reason Sherlock overdosed. Sherlock's -somewhat- afraid of hospitals, when he's the one tied down. I also know nothing about overdose, so I don't know if an OD victim would really need a cardiac monitor, but I figure if his pulse was irregular... Whatever, the point here, be open-minded. (Because I know nothing about this, haha.) John's symptoms are added up to a diagnosis while he relapses, Sherlock's still his normal self, although he reaches a somewhat shocking conclusion about his partnership with John.**

**Reviews help John get better quicker... ;D Haha. Come on, guys! Almost to 110! You can help me beat my record! Let's make this a hit for the (my) Summer of Sherlock!**


	9. Chapter 9

_Boom!_

Explosions were going up around him. Every new deafening blast send a shockwave through the ground, trembling the body from head to foot. Dust cascaded around them. John felt his throat tighten, his breathing slow down as a reflex. He didn't need to breathe in any of that foreign matter. None of them did, but it was imperative that he didn't, most of all.

_Boomboom!_

More mind numbing echoes were followed by the rapid string of gunfire. John could hear people calling his name.

_Watson!_

There were wounded men that needed his help. More booming in the distance. More gunfire.

_John!_

With every new sound, there was a new rush of adrenaline. Adrenaline was the only thing that kept him going. His regiment hadn't stopped for days. They hadn't had food, they hadn't had water, they hadn't had rest. Most of them were just running on adrenaline. The other few were running on hope. And a fair few of them were running on both of those things combined. Not that it would get that that far. But John had to hope that they would make it out of here. If the Doctor didn't have hope, who would ever survive?

"John!"

John awoke with a gasp, sitting bolt upright. His heart was pounding frantically in his chest, echoing in his ears. There was a loud boom, something that was not his heartbeat. John flinched hard, panic overtaking his senses.

"No, no, no, no, no, you're all right. It's okay, it's just thunder."

John paused, looking towards the voice. Sherlock stared back at him, worry visible in his eyes. John thought that he was still asleep because of that. Sherlock Holmes didn't worry.

"Sherlock...?"

The detective looked infinitely relieved. "Oh, good... Nurse!" he called, turning away.

John blinked hard, flinching again when the resounding booming hit his eardrums. Sherlock's gaze was back on him like a shot, eyes critical and careful.

"John, it's just a thunderstorm. You're at the hospital."

"Right..." He slumped back against the pillows, exhausted, as he rubbed his eyes.

He noticed a female nurse come in, heard Sherlock and her talking in whispers about _fever_ and _consciousness_ and something about his PTSD that made John flash a look through his fingers at Sherlock. Of course Sherlock could tell that John was near having an anxiety attack because the thunder sometimes reminded him of explosions.

He'd be fine. Onto more pressing matters.

He cleared his throat, attracting the pair's attention.

"I have no idea how long I've been asleep, or frankly why I'm here in a bed and he's not," because he remembered Sherlock overdosing; of course he remembered that, "but I need the loo." There was a time and place for tact, and this wasn't one of them. He had been a doctor too long; he just said what he needed and, from the look Sherlock was giving him, it wasn't something someone usually came out with. "I am sorry, Sherlock, that I have to take a leak."

Sherlock's frown increased before he looked at the nurse. "What medicine do you have him on?"

The nurse joined John at his bedside. "He's just a bit woozy. You would be, too, if you had his temperature." Addressing John, "Would you be more comfortable having your friend assist you?"

"Uh, sure. That's fine. Right?" He glanced at Sherlock.

"Fine."

"He's my colleague, though. He doesn't believe in friends. He thinks he's too good for them," John added to the nurse. He was rambling. He could tell.

The nurse smiled sympathetically. "I don't think 'colleagues' sit by a sick man's bedside for almost twenty four hours."

John was too stunned by her statement to respond. Twenty four- twenty four _hours_? He'd been unconscious that long? And Sherlock hadn't left his side? He didn't know which was more impressive. (He was too shocked to properly respond to the semi-allusive euphemism in the nurse's statement.)

"Up you go. Mr. Holmes will help you. The bathroom is just there. And take it easy."

She left them to an uncomfortable silence.

"So, well... Come on, then." Sherlock offered a hand.

John took it gratefully. "Get that thing, will you?" he asked, motioning towards the IV stand. "It's transportable."

"Obviously," Sherlock replied. John watched with mild interest as Sherlock gave it an experimental push.

"I feel," he grumbled, as Sherlock helped him to the adjoining bathroom, "like a crippled old man."

"Close enough."

Silence ensued again. And John soon found that a) he wasn't accustomed to having a live audience in the bathroom and b) awkward silence with only breathing over it didn't help to relax him at all.

He heard Sherlock's short huff and he about to return with his own biting remark, when Sherlock stretched the short distance to turn the faucet on.

John didn't know if it was really as funny as he made it or if his medicine just blew it all out of proportion. He was still snickering when Sherlock helped him back into bed. In his defense, Sherlock was smirking, too.

"Ah, Sherlock, what has happened to me?"

"You passed out from a high fever. Well, first you experienced cough syncope after I realized that your symptoms added up to pneumonia. From there, I was absent a few hours. I showed up to your room to find you unconscious from a very high fever. You have been awake periodically for the past day, but never coherent." Sherlock paused. "You haven't needed me to turn on the water faucet until now, so is there any chance that you suffer from paruresis?"

John had been experimenting taking a drink of the water in the cup by his bed. As it seemed, he had most unfortunate timing. He spat the water out at Sherlock's words.

Sherlock's eyes followed the water as it splashed to the ground.

"P-paruresis? Of course not!"

"Well, I should think not, considering all of the time that you spent having to use facilities or even terrain with other men in the war, but-"

"No," John interrupted, shaking his head. "No. Definitely not. I just found it uncomfortable with you breathing down my neck."

"I was not breathing down your neck."

"Sherlock, in a small bathroom that reeks of disinfectant, absolutely no noise and you at my side... All I could hear was you breathing, and all I could feel was awkward."

"Why would you feel awkward? It's only me. We're both anatomically similar. The only thing in males that would result in any sort of bodily difference would be the size of a man's-"

"_No_," was John's quick interruption. "That's why it's awkward."

"But I wasn't comparing," Sherlock responded hotly.

"Of course you were! You notice _everything!_"

"I might notice everything but it doesn't mean that I catalogue it all!"

"Right."

"Why would I care?" Sherlock replied, sinking low into the nearby chair. "It doesn't affect me. It doesn't even matter in the long run, for any male."

"And this is why I question your sexuality," John replied.

Sherlock frowned. "It doesn't affect me," he repeated. "Why on earth would I care?"

"I don't know, Sherlock, why does anyone compare the size of their penis?"

"That sounds like too much medicine for him," came a voice at the door.

Feeling a flush grace his cheeks, John glanced up to meet Lestrade's amused gaze.

"Bad time?" Greg continued.

"Not at all," Sherlock replied before John could. He stood, drawing his coat around him. "I'm popping out. John will need lunch soon. Remind his nurse." Without so much as a goodbye, he had swept from the room with ease.

John rolled his eyes, looking back to the ceiling. Sherlock was absurd.

"He's an ass. But he's a loyal ass."

John looked back to Greg. "Yeah, right, was he really here the past day?"

"Sure as gold, he was. Sat right there," Greg pointed at the chair, "and never moved. Sometimes I thought he was asleep. I've only ever seen him do that on a case."

"I'm just another case to him," John responded simply. It made sense, didn't it? Sherlock hated anything except the work. Sherlock didn't hate him, or, at least John didn't think Sherlock hated him. So, it made sense that all Sherlock saw John as was an experiment. Another scientific study, just one that lived with him.

"Oh, I don't know about that." Greg sank into the chair. "Who knows about Sherlock Holmes? But I daresay that he might just think of you as more than that."

John stared at Lestrade for a moment, frowning. Through all of everyone's coy remarks about their partnership, Sherlock and John's, John could always hear the suggestive meaning. But when Greg spoke, John didn't hear it.

And he began to wonder...

... did Sherlock see him as a friend, too?

John turned back to the ceiling.

* * *

**Chapter's a bit barmy, but I think it's the freakin' humour we've been needing. xD John's on some very potent medication at the moment. Nevertheless, he realizes something in this chapter. Revelations for John, just as Sherlock has had his own.**

**Technical terms: Cough syncope- Fainting occuring due to cough  
Technical terms: Paruresis- "Shy bladder syndrome"**

**Reviews are Sherlock-taking-care-of-John! One more chapter, folks. And an epilogue. I'm telling you, I was assailed with sadness when I typed the last sentence. Thank you!**


	10. Chapter 10

"It's good to have you back, boys. It's not the same without you two going on upstairs," Mrs. Hudson trilled as Sherlock and John walked into the flat.

John stopped to chat to the landlady, but Sherlock pushed his way upstairs. He wouldn't admit to anything of the sort but he grew anxious when he was away from Baker Street. He liked to be home, be surrounded around by his possessions.

John got released later that day, earlier than the hospital probably would have liked, but, with Mycroft being at the center of the world... Sherlock smiled inwardly. He loved being able to take advantage of his brother.

He had settled into his chair with his laptop on his knees and a Bakewell tart in his hand by the time that John wandered up.

Sherlock didn't look back up.

"So, Sherlock-"

"Not now," he replied, peeling a bit of crust off the tart with his teeth.

"Being in the hospital's boring, so-"

"Not _now_," Sherlock echoed lightly, taking a full bite. "Did Mrs. Hudson make these? They're quite good."

"I got to thinking while I was in there-"

"Doubt it," he muttered dismissively, shoving the rest of the tart into his mouth as he abandoned pretense.

"- and I realized that, no matter what you say, you care for me."

Sherlock coughed over the tart. "Why-" he started, but found talking to be a lost cause with a full mouth. After swallowing, he continued with "- would you assume that?"

"You wouldn't sit there for a day if you didn't care. And don't say that I was just an experiment. If you wanted to conduct an experiment on me being unconscious, you'd just sit in my room at night." There was silence, to which Sherlock looked up at. John had a peculiar look on his face before he continued. "You don't sit in my room at night, do you?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"That does not make me feel any better..." John muttered, slipping his coat off.

"The tart will." Sherlock offered one of his. "It's delicious."

"I don't want a tart, Sherlock."

Sherlock shrugged. "Suit yourself."

He went to nibbling on his second tart, stroking his finger over the touchpad of his laptop. He was pursuing through John's blog, smiling to himself.

"Why are you smiling?"

Sherlock smiled even more. "No reason. Going to have a kip now." He shut his laptop, grabbing the third tart off of the armrest of the chair.

"Tarts and a kip? What's gotten into you?"

"Near death brings out the worst in me," Sherlock replied with the passing of a sarcastic smile, breezing off to his bedroom. He closed the door behind him with a snap of finality. John wouldn't follow him. (Yet.)

His room was a sort of a sanctuary. It was essentially boring and essentially clean, which were two things that were rather dull, but he had the kitchen, and the living room, and the bathroom to his devices. Well, he liked to keep the bathroom to his devices, but John had this terrible habit of cleaning up his experiments. And if it wasn't John, it was Mrs. Hudson.

It annoyed him.

Oh well.

He threw himself down on the bed, snuggling into the duvet. Oh, home. Home smelled wonderful. He was past the terrible odour of disinfectant at the hospital, past the stench of illness and death and depression. He was back in his own flat, his own bedroom. He was back in the house that smelled of chemicals and laundry, newsprint and, oddly enough, John.

It was home. It was familiar. It was comforting.

"Sherlock!"

Oh, and there was John. Right on time.

Sherlock rolled over onto his side, drawing his pillow close to him as he closed his eyes. He wasn't about to explain. So, he was asleep. As least, as far as John knew.

* * *

"Sherlock! You _hacked_ into my laptop! _Again!_" John hissed, trying Sherlock's doorknob. It wasn't locked. He pushed it open. An invasion of privacy for an invasion of privacy, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Sherlock deserved it. Damn if Sherlock didn't deserve it.

"Can't you, for once, use your ow-" He stopped abruptly. Blinking at the bottom of his toolbar was an icon for his blog. It was always on his toolbar- he never knew when he would need to update it; things were unpredictable with Sherlock Holmes- but it was rarely blinking when he hadn't updated. Blinking meant that there was activity, perhaps there was a comment to moderate or accept.

He glided his finger over the touchpad, letting the cursor hover over the blog tab.

_264 new comments_.

John blinked, looked at the notification again. "Two hun-two hundred and sixty-four?" he breathed, leaning against Sherlock's doorframe. "Has to be buggy, has to be," he muttered, half glancing up at Sherlock, as if for confirmation. He seemed to be asleep. John looked back at his computer, tapping the blog icon.

The blog pulled up.

_Welcome, John,_

_There are 264 new comments awaiting your approval._

John frowned, a strange sense of anxiety, as well as the general surprise, rushing through him. He hadn't even _updated_ his blog! _Why_ would he have _two hundred and sixty-four_ comments when he hadn't updated?

Except. It said he had. He had a new blog post.

It clicked.

_"Sherlock!" _he hissed, flashing a glare towards the consulting detective. "You hacked my _blog!_ You hate my blog, why would you hack my blog?" When he didn't recieve a response, he huffed, clicking the new blog post.

_**19th September**_

_Untitled_

_SH here. John's ill._

That was it, four little words in a post that didn't even have a title.

But _two hundred and sixty-four_ comments... John started scrolling.

_John's ill? What's gone wrong with him? He was always a stout man- never missed a day of training._

_Mike Stamford__ 19 September 7:08_

* * *

_Get well soon, mate._

_Bill Murray__ 19 September 7:08_

* * *

_John? John, I'm calling you! Actually, maybe I'll call the hospital. I need information, John, is my brother going to be alright?_

_Harry Watson__ 19 September 7:08_

* * *

_Stop fretting. John will be fine. I managed to bring it to the doctor's attention after some time._

_Sherlock Holmes__ 19 September 7:09_

* * *

_Good! I owe you, Sherlock!_

_Harry Watson__ 19 September 7:09_

* * *

_No, you really don't._

_Sherlock Holmes__ 19 September 7:09_

* * *

_Get better soon._

_Siobhan Whelan __ 19 September 7:10_

* * *

_What's wrong, John? Is everything fine with Sherlock?_

_Molly Hooper__ 19 September 7:11_

* * *

_I'm fine._

_Sherlock Holmes__ 19 September 7:11_

* * *

_terrible_

_theimprobableone__ 19 September 7:12_

* * *

_Get better ASAP, John! We need your blog!_

_C Melas__ 19 September 7:12_

* * *

_Was it case-related? We'd love writing about this. Money will ensue._

_Kym Ashman__ 19 September 7:14_

* * *

_Not interested._

_Sherlock Holmes__ 19 September 7:14_

* * *

_John! You can't be sick! Get better! London needs you! (And Sherlock, too, of course, we need Sherlock.)_

_Jacob Sowersby__ 19 September 7:15_

* * *

_Mrs. Hudson has told me! She is extremely worried! Get better soon, John!_

_Marie Turner__ 19 September 7:15_

* * *

_Already missing the blog, mate. Get well soon._

_Anonymous__ 19 September 7:15_

* * *

_John, I know we've had our differences, but I hope you start feeling better soon! I miss your smiling face at the surgery. It's been a rough couple weeks, hasn't it?_

_Sarah Sawyer__ 19 September 7:16_

* * *

_Get well soon._

_Joe__ 19 September 7:17_

* * *

_Get better!_

_Summer__ 19 September 7:17_

* * *

_I can't live without your blog! Want details soon! Get well!_

_Anonymous__ 19 September 7:18_

* * *

_Get better soon, John! I can't stand the thought of you being ill! It's lonely without you at Baker Street! Sherlock thinks so, too! He wants you to wake up!_

_Greg Lestrade__ 19 September 7:19_

* * *

_It's Mrs. Hudson, by the way. :)_

_Greg Lestrade__ 19 September 7:19_

* * *

_Dear God, I should hope so._

_Sherlock Holmes__ 19 September 7:20_

* * *

_Get better soon!_

_Surrey__ 19 September 7:20_

* * *

_What is that supposed to mean, Sherlock?_

_Greg Lestrade__ 19 September 7:20_

* * *

_This is Greg now_

_Greg Lestrade__ 19 September 7:20_

* * *

_Quick recovery!_

_Anonymous__ 19 September 7:21_

* * *

_Well wishes! Get better!_

_Stana C__ 19 September 7:22_

It went on and on. Those were only the comments within the first fourteen minutes of Sherlock's post. It was all well wishes, comments about the blog, getting better, or Sherlock, or the case, or the illness, and _get well, get well, get well_.

John looked back up at Sherlock's lanky form stretched out on the bed. "You..." he trailed off, shaking his head. It was pointless. Sherlock wouldn't respond, no matter how hard he tried.

But really...

_You do care, don't you, Sherlock? You'd never admit it... to me... or to anyone else, which is _stupid_, but you are what you are... But, you really... you have your own little way, don't you? To show you care? You care about me..._

Just like that, John Watson realized that they were friends, he and Sherlock Holmes. And _that_ was the most unforeseen circumstance of them all.

* * *

**So, this chapter isn't so much a chapter a blog, ahaha. And, for avid followers who follow John's blog and know that there is an Anonymous (who may or may not be Moriarty ;D) and my Anonymous' here are not the same! And I slyly put my new penname in there... Well, I actually wrote this before I changed it, but I'm obsessed with the name Summer now.**

**Epilogue soon.**

**I don't mean to self-advertise, but if you guys could read and review my story _Sherlock_, it'd mean a lot. I put a lot of work and, erm, emotion into it and would like to get it out there. **

**If you've followed this story, leave your final thoughts! (The epilogue does not follow this story line much; it's just a final wrap-up.) Thank you so much!**

**EDIT: Check out my profile! I have a game. (Well, okay, it's not really a game, but, I just want to say-) THE GAME IS ON!**

EDIT TWO: If you're looking for another multi-chapter to keep you busy, I've started another. It's called _Returning to Life_, and you can find it on my profile and I would be humbled if you guys would transfer your attentions to that story, too.


	11. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

"Sherlock, you- where have you been hiding this at for the past three weeks?" a sandy-blonde-haired man hissed, looking towards his flatmate.

"Oh, under the bed," replied a dark, curly-haired man of a taller status replied, drawing a cloth across the hairs of a violin bow held in his fingers.

"You'd go to any lengths, wouldn't you?" the shorter man questioned, shaking his head with a smile.

It was clear by their interactions that these two were very close. Their relationship might have seemed strange to those who didn't know them, and even to those who did. There were constant questions, constant allusions, not to mention some very astounding facts that tended to skew most people's thoughts. One of the group was very firm on their relationship, the other couldn't be bothered to care what exactly people thought.

But, they were friends. The famous consulting detective and blogger, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. They were friends.

"Of course I would, you're familiar my methods of experimentation," the taller one, the consulting detective, the man with the name of Sherlock replied. He waved a hand dismissively, as if hiding an experiment under the bed was the most normal thing for him to do. In reality, it was. And his companion knew that it was, too.

"God knows," replied John, the ever-faithful companion, blogger, doctor. Lover of many things, Sherlock included, in a platonic and quiet sense of the word. Emotions, let alone love, were rarely expressed in this flat, in 221B Baker Street. Not from either of the men, anyway. _Love_ was a foreign concept to Sherlock Holmes, not to John, but nonetheless, it was a path that neither of them wanted to bring up.

There was a sense of love in the bond between Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. They weren't _gay_, John Watson would say, at least, _he_ wasn't. Sherlock Holmes' sexuality was another question in itself, one that would probably never be solved. It didn't matter. Sherlock Holmes only had one friend, and that friend was his flatmate, his blogger, his assistant. John Watson.

"Did you pick up milk today?" John mused aloud, fingers curling around the refrigerator door before he pulled it open. "No. No... you didn't. Sherlock, I asked you to go to the store."

"I was incapacitated by the need to solve this murder today. Lestrade was insisting."

"Sherlock, you solved that case last week!"

"Oh, I know, I just like to keep him on edge." A brief, sardonic smile passed Sherlock's lips, lifting them in a smile that was strange for Sherlock Holmes.

"The real reason here was that you didn't want to go to the store, right?" John asked, closing the fridge again. There was nothing in it, anyway. Not that he would eat food from it. He had discovered that he harboured an intense, terrible love for take-away ever since he had found the first severed head in their fridge. (Or Mrs. Hudson's cooking. God bless Mrs. Hudson and her cooking.)

"Obviously," Sherlock replied, drawing the bow across the strings of his violin. John sighed and relinquished his search for something to eat; instead, he moseyed back into the living room and sank into his chair.

Sherlock Holmes had many eccentricities about him, the strangest being his lack of emotions. He also had a lack of appetite, a general distaste for anything considered 'normal', problems with boredom, a love of the abnormal, but one of his more tasteful habits was to play the violin. Except when he played the violin at two in the morning, John enjoyed that habit of Sherlock's.

"Composing?" John inquired after a few moments of unrecognizable music.

"Mm," Sherlock replied in lieu of an actual response. John thought it meant 'yes'.

"What's the occasion?"

"Thinking."

"About?"

Sherlock paused, his bow coming to a halt against the violin strings. There seemed to be a pause where he put together an explanation in his head, where he seemed on the verge of saying something. But, a moment later, he'd repositioned the bow and the music filled the air again.

John rolled his eyes and grabbed the newspaper off of the floor, straightening it out before opening it.

It was just another day at 221B Baker Street. A day full of silence, or music, of crime, or deductions, of boredom, or excitement, of experiments, or idleness... No matter what the day had it store, it would always see the unbreakable bond between two friends: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

* * *

**It was _incredibly_ difficult to write in this POV. xD You've no idea. Besides that, the sort-of-not-really-related epilogue!**

**The end there, where John asks what Sherlock is thinking about... In _my_ mind, Sherlock's thinking about his new found friendship, thinking about John and wondering how he ended up being friends with him. However, it's up to you what you think he's thinking about.**

**Now, dearies, review your heart out! If you've followed it from the start, leave your thoughts. (there were people reviewing Chapter One that I haven't seen since, so if you're there... -Waves frantically- Speak to me! :P) I appreciate you all. It means so much.**

**If you need a new multi-chapter, I've started a new one called _Returning to Life_. It's not terribly plot-ridden, but it's just a lot of dealing with events immediate after _The Great Game_. Would love to get my fans from here transferred to there. :)**


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